Corbett followed Ranulf. He pulled his cowl back up, tugging his cloak tighter about him. He tried to think of Maeve, his children, the manor of Leighton on a warm summer’s day, of feasts and banquets as he tried to control the terrors which still shook him. He had been in many fights. It was always the same, especially with these sinister ambushes: the sudden lunge of knife and sword; the assassin’s arrow whipping through the air. He let his body relax. All he was conscious of was the thinning trees giving way to snow-filled fields, the occasional bird call or sudden flurry in the ditches on either side.
‘And there it is!’ Ranulf shouted.
They had now entered the abbey demesne: the spire of its church soared up against the grey clouds. Corbett could make out the tiled roofs, the broad gables and fretted stonework of the abbey buildings above the grey curtain wall. They passed Bloody Meadow. Corbett reined in and peered through the oak trees at the burial mound in the centre.
‘If the living can’t help me,’ he whispered, ‘perhaps the dead will?’
They went on, past the main gateway, following the wall. Ranulf abruptly reined in and pointed to the small wooden straw-thatched bothy, more like a cow byre, built against the wall near one of the postern gates. A black column of smoke rose from the hole in the roof. The ground outside was littered with broken pots, bits of bones and rags.
‘Not the cleanest or tidiest of men,’ Ranulf laughed. ‘But there’s our hermit. Sir Hugh, I wish you well.’ He turned his horse.
‘Where are you going?’ Corbett asked sharply.
‘I have business of my own,’ Ranulf replied.
And, before Corbett could object, he’d spurred his horse along the trackway.
‘Where is he going?’ Chanson wailed.
Corbett had his suspicions but he kept them to himself. He dismounted and led his horse along the wall. The Watcher came shambling out of his bothy. He stood, legs apart, hands on his hips.
‘You are just in time for some food!’ he bawled. ‘I wondered when you’d come. Bread and meat?’
He darted back in. Corbett glanced at Chanson: some colour had returned to the groom’s face.
‘Look after the horses!’ the clerk ordered.
He followed the Watcher inside. The bothy was cleaner and tidier than he had expected. It was very similar to a poor peasant’s cottage: earth-beaten floor, two makeshift windows on either wall, no door but instead a thick leather covering. The vent in the straw roof allowed smoke to escape from the fire built in a circle of stones. Above it was a bubbling iron pot on a makeshift tripod. The place smelt sweet, rather fragrant. In the far corner stood a trestle bed; in the other a large, battered chest, which bore pewter bowls, cups and jugs, all cracked and weathered.
‘Aren’t you afraid of fire?’ Corbett murmured.
‘Well, if there was one,’ the Watcher was now crouching by the pot stirring it with a wooden ladle, ‘I’d flee like a greyhound and come back and build another. The monks are very kind and so is Lady Margaret, as you probably discovered.’
He brought across a rather unsteady three-legged stool, pressing it down against the floor as if he wanted to make it more secure.
‘Sit there!’
He took a bowl and filled it, thrusting it into Corbett’s hands. There was a similar one for Chanson waiting outside with the horses. Corbett took his hornspoon out and dipped it in. The broth was very good: thick and dark with pieces of succulent meat, vegetables and bread. He even tasted a little salt. He sipped it carefully. The Watcher by the Gates came back, pulling down the leather awning, turning the hut gloomy.
‘I have an oil lamp,’ he offered.
‘Sit down,’ Corbett replied. ‘You were expecting me, weren’t you?’
The Watcher filled a bowl for himself and crouched cross-legged before Corbett, his face almost masked by the tangle of hair, as he slurped noisily on the broth.
‘Of course I expected you. You’re a clerk, aren’t you? You have questions to ask?’
‘You were baptised,’ Corbett began, ‘Salyiem. I understand from the Lady Margaret that you were born in this area and spent your youth on the Harcourt estates.’
The Watcher smacked his lips.
‘If Lady Margaret says that, then she’s right.’
‘Were you there when Sir Stephen and Sir Reginald were friends?’
‘Of course, they were comrades-in-arms.’
‘And Lady Margaret’s marriage was a happy one?’
The Watcher lowered his face and licked the broth from the battered spoon.
‘Of course.’
‘Were you there the day Sir Reginald disappeared?’
‘Of course.’ The Watcher lifted his head, his moustache and beard stained with the broth.
‘Of course! Of course! Of course!’ Corbett mimicked. ‘What were your duties at the manor house?’
‘I was what you call a reeve, more concerned with the household than the estates.’
‘And you remember the day Sir Reginald left?’
‘Yes, early in the morning, I helped him saddle his horse. Don’t look surprised,’ he continued, ‘that was my task.’
‘And it was definitely Sir Reginald?’
‘Who else could it be?’
‘And how was his manner? Was he shaved and changed?’
‘He loaded the sumpter pony himself, then he left with hardly a word. I did ask him where he was going. “A great adventure, Salyiem,” he replied and he was gone. I believe it was a Friday, the feast of St Iraeneus. The rest of the household were asleep because of the tournament. Sir Stephen was agitated, when Sir Reginald didn’t return after a few days, and that’s when the search began.’
‘Were you involved in it?’
‘Of course I was. I liked Sir Reginald. He was always very kind to me. He’d promised to make me his squire.’
Quick and easy, Corbett thought. He recalled the first time he had met the Watcher by the Gates: he had been tense and excited. Corbett almost had to pinch himself. Was this the same man? The Watcher spoke fluently, without pausing to recall or test his memory.
‘I even offered,’ he chattered on, ‘to accompany Sir Stephen and Lady Margaret but they refused.’
‘They took no servants?’
‘None whatsoever. A few months later Sir Stephen returned.’ The Watcher put down his bowl and gesticulated with his hands. ‘All changed he was, thinner, harsh-faced, no longer teasing or laughing. He came back to the hall. I couldn’t believe it when he announced that he was entering the Abbey of St Martin’s. A few months later Lady Margaret returned. She, too, had changed. She put on widow’s weeds, and hung black cloths round the hall. I realised life had altered forever: the summer and autumn had gone, a harsh winter had arrived. It wasn’t the same after that. Harcourt Manor became the haunt of ghosts. No more jousting or revelry, troubadours or minstrels, jesters or mummers men.’
‘So you went wandering?’
‘Aye, I went wandering. Across to France, down into Italy. I even visited Rome and took ship to Outremer. I came back a sick man and spent some time at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in Smithfield. Then I travelled north. When I arrived here Stephen Daubigny was Prior.’ He heard the horses whinny outside and glanced towards the door.
‘Chanson will look after them. Continue with your story.’
‘He greeted me like a long-lost brother. He allowed me to build this bothy.’ The Watcher pointed to the chest. ‘He even gave me a letter of permission and so I settled down. I have bread and meat, and the skies to watch. I love this place.’
‘Everybody likes you, don’t they?’ Corbett remarked. ‘Abbot Stephen was kind; Lady Margaret the same, though she’s compassionate to everyone, isn’t she?’
‘Always has been.’
‘Even before Sir Reginald disappeared?’
The Watcher opened his mouth, a guarded look in his eyes.
‘Well, no,’ he stumbled over his reply, ‘only since her return.’
‘And she and Sir Stephen never met again?’
‘Never once.’
‘But that’s strange? They had so much in common yet they never met?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Never exchanged letters?’